He had brought a map with him and learnt from it that there was an alternative to going back by way of the road. It involved a far longer walk than his outward one, for it meant taking a broad causeway which led down to the shore, following another which ran almost parallel with the beach and then taking a long cast across the marshes on another causeway which would bring him out about a quarter of a mile east of Saltacres church.
Just before he reached this last causeway, which turned in a southward direction away from the beach, he saw two people paddling. They were laughing, pushing one another and kicking up the water. One he recognised immediately from the back view. It was Camilla, clad as usual in her jeans and shapeless sweater. The man who was with her was a stranger to Palgrave, but certainly not to the girl for, as Palgrave passed behind them, but twenty yards or so inland, he saw him swing Camilla up, toss her in the air, catch her again, kiss her and then, to an accompaniment of her squeals, dump her into the shallow water. She suddenly hooked the man’s legs from under him and had him floundering beside her. They both yelled with laughter.
To his own amazement and self-distrust, Palgrave found himself furious because of these antics. He quickened his pace and turned on to the homeward causeway, but fancied that their laughter pursued him.
When he reached the village he turned into the pub, as usual, for his midday snack and found the place taken over almost entirely by yachtsmen. He looked around for Adrian and Miranda, but they were not present. The bar was noisy and bonhomous, but there was nobody he knew. He managed to edge his way to the bar and put in his order, but ate his bread and cheese and drank his pint as quickly as he could. Then he went back to the cottage and sat down at his work table. He enlarged the notes he had made, typed them out, made a list of possible titles for his book, hoping that one of these titles would set the opus in motion, but gave up in despair and decided to go for a swim. The tide was still running out, so he searched the mudflats it was leaving behind and hoped that he might come upon the specimens of marine life which Adrian had sketched for him.
Tiring of this pursuit, he went back to the sand-dunes, took off his shirt and lay out in the sun. The warmth and the lassitude which followed his long walk of the morning soon sent him to sleep. He woke to find Camilla seated beside him, her arms clasped round her knees.
“Hullo,” she said. She sounded deflated and tired. No wonder, he thought. He sat up and gazed out to sea. “I’m sorry about last night,” she went on. “Can’t we be friends?”
“I don’t think you’re capable of it,” he replied. “You can’t even keep your promises, can you?” He did not tell her that he had seen her already that day. Again he was conscious of the fact that the emotion her antics had conjured up in him was not disgust but sheer sexual jealousy. “I’m a dog in a manger,” he told himself angrily. “I don’t want the blasted girl, and yet I’m not willing that anybody else should have her.”
“A penny for them,” she said, putting her hand on his knee.
“You’d be wasting your money,” he said. On the following morning, but with a much later start to his walk, he explored the green countryside of the low hills behind the village. When he got back to the pub he found that, although it was less crowded than it had been at the previous midday, it was still virtually in possession of the yachtsmen. They were crowding the bar, so when he had secured his snack and his drink, he looked around to find somewhere to sit down. He found an alcove which was occupied only by Miranda.
“May I?” he asked, seating himself opposite her.
“Oh, Colin, how nice!” she said.
“May I get you a drink?”
“No, I have had what I wanted. I was just about to leave, but now I will stay and talk to you. It was good of you to lend Adrian and Camilla your car to go over to Stack Ferry. I did not want them to go together, but Adrian is so anxious to explore those freshwater marshes that I said nothing except that I was grateful to Camilla for taking him—he does not drive and the car was lent to Camilla—”
“But it wasn’t!”
“You did not lend it to her?”
“Of course I didn’t! I don’t allow anybody else to drive my car. Suppose she has a crash and busts it up!”
“That girl!” exclaimed Miranda, for the second time in his hearing, but this time with greater emphasis. “She declared that you had promised she should borrow it because you were out walking and would not need it yourself today. Oh, Colin, I am so sorry! Adrian and I were doubtful, but she swore it was all arranged between you, so for Adrian the temptation to believe her was too strong. There is no transport that he can hire from here, you see.”
“Well, I must hope for the best, I suppose.” Palgrave tried to contain his anger, but could not. He escorted Miranda back to the cottage, put on his swim-trunks, and slung a towel around his shoulders. Still in a state of bitter anger, he took to the causeway, crossed the plank bridge where he had met Camilla for the first time and, walking and running, made his way down to the shore.
The soft warm muddy sand was pleasant to walk upon. Disregarding the dangers of swimming on an outgoing, treacherous tide, he ran into the rapidly shallowing water until he found the sand shelving beneath his feet.
When he got back to the cottage, exhausted and with legs which seemed to be made of jelly, he found that Miranda was still alone. She was seated by his window completing the picture she had begun from the same vantage point on the previous day. She did not look round as he entered, but when he collapsed on the studio couch and gave a great sigh of exhaustion she put down her brush and came over to him.
“What have you been doing?” she asked.
“A damn silly thing, and nearly got myself drowned. The bloody tide carried me out, and when I thought it was time to get back to shore I found there was such a vicious undertow that I began to think I would never make it.”
“You were angry about your car. People do foolish things when they are angry.”
“Well, my first fine frenzy has washed itself away, that’s one thing. So long as Camilla hasn’t damaged the car I’ll forgive her. I shall give her a piece of my mind, of course.”
“You do that. You must also put your feet up and I will make us both a cup of tea.” She was so comforting and the tea was so welcome that he said, when he had drunk it and she had gone back to her painting:
“I say, Miranda.”
“Yes, Colin?”
“No need to tell Adrian my car was taken without my permission. I mean, if he’s had a good day, no need to spoil it for him.”
That Adrian had had a good day there was no room for doubt. He was full of enthusiasm and gratitude. He had found a beautiful specimen of the sea-pea—“not the marsh-pea, Colin, but lathyrus japonicus, you know, not lathyrus palustris. I have painted one before, but not one so perfect.” Then a fisherman had shown him a lovely marine creature which he had not seen before, the opossum shrimp. “Not a true shrimp, Colin. This one is not edible. It is only used for bait. It looks like a shrimp and is the most exciting Cambridge blue on top and white underneath. It swims in estuaries and is very active. It is in movement most of the time and does not stay on the bottom, as true shrimps do. I have made sketches and colour notes and now I shall work out my design.”
He was so happy and had enjoyed himself so much that, more than before, it seemed to Palgrave that it would be desecration to say anything about the unlawful use of the car. It did occur to him, however, to wonder what Camilla had been up to while Adrian had been pursuing his own interests.
CHAPTER 4
INTERLOPERS
“Why did my Summer not begin?
Why did my heart not haste?
My old Love came and walk’d therein,
And laid the garden waste.”
Arthur O’Shaughnessy
Camilla accepted Palgrave’s scolding meekly, but said at the end of it that “poor old Adrian” had been “so pathetically keen” to get to Stack Ferry that she thought,
“Colin, darling,” that nobody would mind if she borrowed the car.
“I didn’t like to follow you on to the marshes and ask,” she added virtuously. “You don’t seem to want me to do that.”
“You didn’t want me to refuse to lend the car to you, you mean, you sneaky little devil,” said Palgrave. “Anyway, I don’t know how you got hold of the keys.”
“You’re such a sound sleeper, darling. It was quite easy. I nipped into the parlour in the early hours and felt in your pockets.”
“Thanks for the warning. I’ll be more careful in future.”
“May I swim with you this morning, just to show you forgive me?”
“I’m not swimming today. I went in on an outgoing tide yesterday and had a job getting back. I am not too keen on going in again so soon.”
“I ought to have warned you. The bathing is safe enough, but not when the tide’s going out.”
“So I discovered. Why didn’t you mention it?”
“I thought a good swimmer like you knew all about things like that. I suppose you did know, but you were mad with me because of the car and that’s why you did it.”
This was so true that Palgrave did not contest it.
“Be seeing you at supper,” he said. “I shall take the car out myself this morning and put temptation out of your way.”
“We did top up with petrol at Stack Ferry,” she said plaintively, “so now you can stop being nasty. We didn’t hurt your old car!”
Adrian’s description of Stack Ferry, apart from his eulogies concerning the marine biology and marsh botany of the place, had made Palgrave think that a day spent in exploring what had once been a famous and important harbour might well be worth while, for at last he was prepared to believe that he was not to get any help with his projected novel from among the mudflats of Saltacres.
If he liked Stack Ferry and there was reasonably priced accommodation to be had there, he decided to make a booking for the following week, when Adrian’s lease of the Saltacres cottage in any case would expire.
He thought he would make a full day of his preliminary survey, so he made his own breakfast before the others were up, went along the street to a broad part of it where he had parked his car, and set off. The road still kept its distance from the sea and skirted the low hills, but the scenery gradually altered. There were several bridges to cross and at the foot of the hills there were small lakes. On the seaward side several rough tracks led down to the marshes, but petered out long before they reached the sea, and after he had passed a round barrow on the landward side, he went through a village which had a perfect little Norman church, which he visited. A few miles further on he came in sight of the town.
He drove on past the parish church, an edifice dedicated to St. Nicholas, sure sign of the town’s former connection with the Netherlands, and then found a signpost which directed him either to turn sharp left for the next village or sharp right to reach the town centre. The road to the right, which he took, soon narrowed. It passed a coastguard station, skirted a considerable creek (still a couple of hundred yards wide, but obviously much silted up since the time the Dutch trading vessels had been able to sail into the town) and then the road swung right again and he could see the church tower once more.
He found a street parking place, locked the car and set out on foot to explore the town. It was an interesting and picturesque old place, important enough, in spite of its vicissitudes, to have a railway station and a bus station, and in the middle of the town there was a long green open space still known as Archery. Around it were the houses, Georgian and Queen Anne, which once had belonged to wealthy merchants and ship-owners, but were now either decayed or turned into flats.
Narrow streets led down to the quay, and there were so many holiday makers about that Palgrave became doubtful as to whether he would be able to get accommodation for the following week. He found an ancient, pleasant inn for his mid-morning beer and made enquiries.
Did they let bedrooms to holidaymakers?
Yes, they did. What would he require?
A single room for a week or possibly a fortnight.
When would he want to take it up?
From Saturday afternoon, but he was not quite sure of his plans. Would they make a tentative booking?
Yes, if he cared to leave a deposit. The town was beginning to fill up and they could let the room without any trouble.
When he was shown the room Palgrave had his doubts about this. He was conducted to it by way of the public bar and a narrow dark staircase which could lead nowhere but to the quarters usually allotted to the staff. The room, approached by a passage lighted only from overhead, was cramped and low ceilinged and contained a single bed of the least possible width, a chest of drawers, a chair and half a dozen wire coathangers hung on a brass rod behind a curtain. There were no facilities for washing. Palgrave pointed this out.
“No room for a fitted basin,” said his guide. “Bathroom on the next floor. I’ll show you. Anyway, this is the only room that isn’t booked up, so it’s take it or leave it, I’m afraid, sir.”
Palgrave paid the modest deposit, went down to lunch and found the meal satisfying and well cooked. In the afternoon he cruised around in his car, visited a stately home, had his tea there, dined at The Stadholder, his inn, and got back to the Saltacres cottage at just after nine. Here a surprise awaited him.
The others were out—at the pub, he supposed—but his studio couch had been opened up and the bed made, and on that bed were a pair of alien pyjamas and a nightdress, and at the foot of the bed two suitcases not his own. He could make nothing of this display, but he found it disquieting and waited impatiently for the return of Adrian and Miranda.
When they came in, Adrian looked apprehensive and Miranda flustered and embarrassed.
“Oh, you’re back, Colin,” she said, with an attempt at brightness. “Would you like some supper?”
“I’ve dined, thanks. I say, Miranda, what’s all this?” he waved his hand at the suitcases. Miranda waved her own hand in agitation.
“I know! I know!” she wailed. “But, Colin, what could I do?”
Adrian shot an apologetic glance at Palgrave and, in the craven manner of most men faced with a domestic tangle, muttered something about changing into his slippers and went upstairs.
“Well,” said Palgrave, “what could you do about what?”
“There has been an overlap in the letting. These people say they have it in writing that they booked the cottage for a fortnight from today and we have it in writing that it is ours until midday on Saturday. Adrian, always despicable, poor boy, when there is trouble, says we must move out and go home. I said to him”—Palgrave sat down on the bed and she came and sat beside him and took his unresponsive hand— “I said what about Colin? What about Camilla? Both pay their way and expect to be here for the rest of the week.”
“True enough. And so?”
“I do not give way. We have as much right to the cottage as these other people. I suggested that there should be a compromise and after a little argument they saw that there was nothing for it but to agree.”
“How many of them are there?”
“Only the two of them, Colin, a doctor and his wife.”
“So what’s the compromise?”
“Well, a simple one, really. The woman can sleep in Camilla’s room. There are two beds in there. You and the man—he is young and clean and charming—will share the studio couch.”
“I’m damned if we do!”
“Oh, Colin, it is only for a night or two.”
“If it was only for one night the answer is still the same.”
“Well, the only other thing,” said Miranda, “is for the new ones—they are Londoners and very nice people—to have the studio couch, and for you to take the other bed in Camilla’s room. You could rig up a blanket as a screen between the beds. Adrian would help you.”
“And how long is that going to keep Camilla out of my hair?”
&nb
sp; “Oh, Colin, you said you could deal with her and I’m sure you can.”
“Look, Miranda, I see your difficulty but I want no part in helping you out of it.”
“At least come into the kitchen and be friendly. We will all talk it over with them and see what is best to be done.”
“Oh, they’re in the kitchen, are they?”
But when he went into the kitchen a further shock awaited him. He had raised a startled query when he had learnt that the interlopers came from London, but reflected that, after all, London is a large and sprawling place. All the same, he had lived in it for several years and taught at one of its schools. It would be just his rotten luck that these people might even be the parents of one of his pupils. Meeting parents on Open Days or at Parent Teacher Association meetings was bad enough. To encounter them on holiday was intolerable. Something told him that disaster loomed.
He could not refuse to accompany Miranda to the kitchen, but there the situation was even worse than he had anticipated, for he recognised one of the newcomers at once. The girl was Morag Kintyre, to whom he had been engaged and whom he had discarded in favour of his Muse. She greeted him calmly, but with a thrust from a verbal dagger which she did not even know she was holding.
“Hullo, there, Colin!” she said. “When are we going to see your second book reviewed? We’ve been looking out for it. It isn’t everybody who knows an author. Cupar, darling, this is the famous Colin Palgrave I’ve often talked about.”
“My second book is not quite ready yet,” said Palgrave, forcing himself to adopt a light tone. “As a matter of fact,” he went on, addressing Miranda, “I’ve had all I can use, I think, in this place, so I’m moving on tomorrow. Actually I’m clearing out tonight, so you two”—he smiled at the married couple—“couldn’t have come at a better time if you want to take up your option.”
“Oh, dear!” said Morag, her face falling. (She was prettier than Palgrave had remembered.) “Don’t say we’re turning you out!”
The Mudflats of the Dead (Mrs. Bradley) Page 4